


behind my colour blindness

by ThatWeirdGuyInTheBushes



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, ahhhhhhhhhh, assigned father figure at birth, getting married underage, its so non linear, no beta we die like men, server au, someone help these children, victors tower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28118892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWeirdGuyInTheBushes/pseuds/ThatWeirdGuyInTheBushes
Summary: "Congratulations to Tony, victor of the 80th Annual Hunger Games."title from the song "lapis lazuli" by the oh hellos.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 10





	1. November 13th, 80

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WreakingHavok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreakingHavok/gifts).



> hello mr hank havok. it is me again :D
> 
> you remember the hype house server au? we created an au of that au where the 69 rebellion failed. i made a character for it and he lives on floor 80 smile (:
> 
> I'm gifting this to you because I've already badgered everyone else and i want you to come cry in the discord or something
> 
> your estranged bastard son, tony.

Floor Eight has a lot of flaws but the second worst one is that it is fucking freezing.

Tony doesn’t even look around. He finds his room, hides under the blankets, and just tries to go to bed. He doesn’t want to cry anymore. Crying is for babies. But if he doesn’t pass out then he’s going to start crying, so he’s just trying to go to sleep.

He spends ten minutes shivering before he finally gets up and decides to steal the blankets from the other rooms. It’s not like anyone else will be using them.

His chest is numb. His stomach hurts. He needs a glass of water before he does anything else. The halls are so winding and similar that it takes him at least five minutes of wandering before he finds the kitchen. The water is too cold, too purified, and he wants to spit it out but that’s just a waste so he doesn’t. And it sloshes around in his empty stomach, colder than the marble floor, and he feels even sicker than he was.

He holds up the glass and looks at how hard his hands are shaking. It’s mesmerizing for the second before he drops it and it shatters on the floor.

Tony stares at it. He should pick it up. He really should.

The room for whoever will arrive next year does not have a theme yet, so it’s almost identical to the ones from the training centre. Tony grabs the blankets off the top and trudges back to his room.

It’s still too cold, and the blue walls are too bright, and everything is horrible and he can’t get any shut-eye and he just wants to fucking sleep.

He screams. Really loudly. And then picks the blankets off the bed, stomps through Floor Eight until he finds the living room, and falls asleep on the couch. He cries, but he keeps his head in his sleeves so that none of the cameras can see, and it doesn’t really count then, does it?

-

He dreams about the girl.

_(Long red hair, district eight, a tongue sharp enough to cut glass and a body that was too small to fit the everything that she was. She could whistle louder than anyone he’d ever heard and her eyes were green and she swore too much for her parents liking and she was thirteen, she was thirteen, she was-)_

He dreams about the victory tour.

_(Thank you, thank you, don’t stop saying thank you. You have nothing to thank them for but don’t stop saying thank you and don’t break anything and for fucks sake please don’t start crying. Go home and pretend that things are alright and hug your father too tight and ignore the way your brothers are looking at you now that they know who you are. Don’t stop speaking and don’t stop pretending and ignore all the pain and if you want them to live please don’t stop saying thank you, please-)_

He wakes up at three in the morning and can’t fall back asleep.

-

Tony’s stylist is a pretty woman with a clipped accent who has yet to compliment him without fitting an insult into the sentence.

Before his welcoming ceremony, she stops fixing his hair, sits him down, presses her hands on his shoulders hard enough to keep him in place, and tells him to smile. “Your brand is about smiling and nice sweaters. Tell a good joke if you’re asked to speak, and do not stop smiling.”

Tony swallows. Nods. Closes his eyes and steadies out his breathing until it stops hitching. “Okay.”

The sweater is itchy. The beard scruff they won’t let him shave off is itchy. Floor Eight is cold.

By the time he’s standing in front of Floor Seven, he’s grateful that this is the only thing he has to do. They haven’t modified his body. He doesn’t have antlers. This is better than he could have ended up with.

The little notecard in his hand is a lifeline. He smiles and hopes that he looks like his dad. Sickness roars in his stomach as he thinks about the last person he smiled at like this _(She was thirteen-)._

He thanks Floor Seven, because he’ll die if he stops.

They take the stage, one by one, and he keeps the gentle smile on his face and he doesn’t cry and he doesn’t listen to a word that’s spoken.

The ballroom is covered in screens. Kade told him not to look. The last night of the victory tour, on their way back to the Capitol, Kade told him that the ballroom would play his Games on every wall and he told Tony not to look.

Tony looks.

His breath gets stuck in his throat. Icy water sloshes around in his head. He can’t think through it, he can’t speak, he can’t even move-

A hand lands on his shoulder and Tony stiffens, pulling himself out of the arctic waters and plastering the smile back onto his face. He turns around and faces them.

He gets the weird feeling that if he makes eye contact, they’ll be able to see into his soul, so he looks at their hair _(Long red hair, district eight-)._ “Hey,” he says.

“Hi! You’re Tony, right? I’m Ozzie.” He watches in his periphery as they hold out a hand, and he shakes it. Ozzie. OctopusDefender. District four. He can deal with this, he can deal with this, he’s not crying so he’s doing fine.

“Nice to meet you.” He looks at her eyebrow, still smiling. If there’s one thing he has to remember it’s his brand. Soft sweaters. Keep smiling. His stylist says he’s fatherly so he should play into that as hard as he can because she’s kept him alive this long. He looks at the sleeve of Ozzie’s dress. “How are you liking the party, Ozzie?”

He finally drags his eyes up to hers. So what if she can see into his soul? If he’s going to survive, his soul should be part of the brand. Everyone will be looking at it soon enough.

They have blue eyes. “It’s lovely! I’m so happy to welcome you to the victor’s tower.” She smiles, and he can tell that she hates him. He wishes he could ask why.

“I’m glad to be here.” The lie tastes like cyanide. The final pill, the death sentence. This is it. There will be no waking up, no miraculous reveal or rescue. This is it, and this is his life, and he will be alone until the Capital drags someone else out of hell to stay with him.

He doesn’t have to stop himself from crying. His eyes are dry.

He talks to people all night. It’s cold in the ballroom, and the sunrise makes him feel even colder. A capitol citizen kisses his hand. He goes to the bathroom and scrubs them for ages and the lipstick washes off but the feeling doesn’t.

He catches Ozzie’s eyes before he leaves and his chest gets even emptier. He goes back to Floor Eight and he drinks the cold water and he eats alone, sitting on the counter, trying to pretend he can hear his brothers in the other room. They’ll come in any minute if he waits long enough.

The girl’s name was Lea. He can’t bring her back but he can call her by her fucking name.

The couch is too soft. Everything is too quiet. Tony grabs his blankets and sleeps on the kitchen floor because some small, childish part of him that he can’t afford to shelter any longer is keening and whining at the idea that if he waits long enough everything will be okay again.

Floor Eight has a lot of flaws, but the worst one is that it’s all his.


	2. January 1st, 80

Tony is hiding.

The New Year's Gala is the worst thing that has ever happened and Tony is hiding. He’s sitting on top of a toilet lid, his legs pulled to his chest, and he’s hoping that the floor will swallow him up just so he doesn’t have to come out again.

He’s never been this bad at an event. Normally he can deal with all of the talking and the gross flirting and the faux-politeness. But tonight it’s making his stomach roll. He’s tired of capitolites treating him like an adult, he’s tired of acting like an adult, he’s sick to his stomach with being who he is.

So that’s why he’s hiding in a bathroom stall at a party.

That’s why he doesn’t respond when someone knocks on the door. “Hey,” a voice says from beyond the stall door. “Tony, right? Ozzie told me to check up on you, make sure you’re not dead and all that.”

He recognizes the voice from somewhere but can’t pinpoint where. He pulls his legs tighter to his chest and replies “I’m fine.” His voice breaks in that way it always does when he’s panicking.

There’s a tense silence and Tony prays that whoever is out there will just leave. But the shoes under the door don’t move. “Sure, you are. Do you wanna talk about it?”

Tony clears his throat. He hesitates, but eventually answers “No.”

The person on the other side of the door sighs loudly, tapping their foot on the tile. “At least come out of the bathroom, then. People are gonna get suspicious.”

Tony hugs himself as tight as he can. He finally gets up and pushes open the door, still nauseous and scared and lonely but at least if he has an anxiety induced heart attack there will be someone to call the medics.

“I’m Parker,” the person mumbles as Tony stumbles to the sink. He lets out a small noise to show that he heard and then splashes his face with cold water.

“Where are we going?” He’s slurring his words. His tongue is a little numb and none of his body is caught up to his brain.

Parker considers this. “Balcony.”

“Okay.”   
  
And then they’re off, weaving through the guests, Tony trying to shrink behind Parker despite being taller than them as they give excuses to the peacekeepers. They wander through Floor Seven, which would look identical to Floor Eight if not for the little signs of life, like the clothes abandoned on the couch or the plates in the sink, and eventually they make it to the balcony.

Parker exhales heavily, shaking out their hands like they’re flicking off water. Tony keeps his arms around himself.

“This better?” Parker doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even make an effort to sound concerned, but Tony feels his heart stutter all the same. Fuck, he’s so desperate. He would give an arm and a leg to switch places with Parker. To have someone there. Then he feels guilty, because as much as he wants it, he wouldn’t wish Floor Eight on anyone.

“Yeah. Thanks.” His voice breaks again. He clears his throat harder this time.

Parker puts their arms on the balcony, leaning on it. “That’s good.” They both lapse into awkward silence again. “So why’d you stow away in the bathroom?”

Tony presses down on his collarbone, scuffing his boots on the balcony floor. “I dunno. Just overwhelmed, I guess. Not really used to people anymore.”

“How is it on Floor Eight?” Tony wants Parker to leave, or to shut their mouth and stop asking questions, but he figures he owes them for getting him out of the party like they did.

He cups the back of his neck and tries to think of words to describe his home. “It’s… cold. And uh, empty. The walls echo a lot, so sometimes you hear things, but it’s only ever you up there.” He tilts his head up, trying to be subtle about the tears building up in his eyes.

When he finally looks at them again, Parker is staring contemplatively into the night sky, tracing circles on the railing with their finger. They purse their lips. “Sounds shitty.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s one way to put it.”

Parker pushes themselves away from the railing and turns around, not looking at Tony. “You can stay out here however long you like. I- I have to get back to the party. Bye.”

Tony can’t even get out a goodbye of his own before they’ve shut the door.


	3. July 22nd, 82

The day he gets married is the worst day of Tony’s life.

It’s one of those things that you’re not supposed to say, that’s not supposed to happen. Marriage is all about happiness and love and shit, or at least it’s meant to be.

Tony is holding the wine glass too tight, and he’s going to break it if he doesn’t let up. He doesn’t. Some crazy, trapped animal part of him hopes that it breaks. If he bleeds enough, they’ll take him to the infirmary, and he’ll get a little more time before he signs his life away.

And the funny thing is that it’s not even that big a deal. It’s not like he had freedom before this. It’s not like things were good and now they’re bad, or like kissing someone and reading off some vows he didn’t even write is going to ruin anything that hasn’t been ruined already.

But he always had this idea of how things were going to be.

His mom and dad were never married. His mom was Peacekeeper trash that dropped by twice a year, and his dad never cared much for love, but Tony always wanted what they didn’t have. He always thought that one day he would be out in the field, cutting down grain with his scythe, and he would see someone beautiful. Skin glowing under the sun, rays caught in their hair, eyes that he could get lost in forever. And he would catch them after work and ask them if they wanted to hang around.

He drinks his wine and then tries to scrape the taste off his tongue with his teeth.

He and them would explore the ruins together and eat breakfast while watching the sunrise and smile at each other from across the field. He’d marry them. He could have kids, give them the parents he always wanted when he was young.

Preferably, he’d be an adult, and they would be his age.

All it took was one stream. He and Cael had  _ one fucking stream _ together. And it was fun and it was nice and it was  _ innocent _ . They baked a cake. They had a good time. It was chaotic, and pleasant, and one of his funnier streams. 

He shouldn’t have been so friendly. He doesn’t have anyone to really blame but himself.

Tony smiles for the cameras and thanks everyone for coming. He shakes their hands, endures the slimy feeling on his skin that their touch leaves him with, and he doesn’t stop smiling, and he doesn’t dare stop saying thank you.

He sets his empty wine glass on the table and massages some colour back into his knuckles.

His heart hurts. He remembers being fourteen, those wild dreams about the person he was going to be, and he forgot how to cry a while ago but he might remember just for tonight. He could excuse it as happy tears. He could get away with it tonight.

He adjusts his tie.

Tony stands at the end of the aisle, next to the officator. Cael is wearing a long white dress shirt and a vest. Their buttons catch the bright ballroom lights and blind him.

He reads a card full of vows and declarations of love and tries to sound like he means it, even a little bit. He feels his eyes getting hot with tears, but he blinks them away before they fall.

Part of him wishes he had eaten something while he had the chance, because maybe it could have cleared his head. The rest of him is sure that if he had, he would be sick right now.

Cael’s vows are read out loud by someone else while they use sign language. Tony lets the static white noise at the back of his brain fill up his ears and watches Cael’s fingernails. He only tunes back in when they stop moving. The officator does their job and Tony wants to scream, wants to grab the glasses and the vases of flowers and smash them on the ground. He wants to cry and he doesn’t want to pretend that they’re happy tears.

He thinks of his brothers, and his father, and of the new victor, Jamie, somewhere in the crowd, and he says “I do” with a smile he pours his whole heart into. Don’t stop smiling. That’s all he has to remember.

He’s never kissed anyone before. He probably won’t ever kiss anyone else.

Cael’s eyes are an empty reflection of his own, and he’s glad for that, at least. He’ll have to pretend to love them, but at least they’ll be able to forgive him for it. At least they’re in the same boat now, even if it’s sinking.

They go to Floor Seven. Cael takes off the vest, cracking their back, going into the bathroom and leaving Tony sitting at the desk, staring at his painted fingernails, nursing a fading ache in his chest. He doesn’t get it anymore. He’s supposed to be an adult by now. He’s supposed to be able to get married and take care of people and be okay. But all of this is making him feel like a kid again, like some lost, stumbling little boy, learning to read and walk for the first time.

A chord in his chest is plucked harshly, snapping back against his ribs. He shouldn’t have drank at the party. He’s just made himself feel worse.

He hears the sink in the bathroom turn on and some primal panic stirs up in his stomach. He’s rushing out the door before he even knows that he’s doing it.

He’s grateful that all the floors are identical. It makes finding what he’s looking for so much easier.

It’s cold outside, but Tony is used to the cold. He sits down, dangling his feet over the balcony and pressing his head to the bars. He could cry here. No one around. No one to protect from knowing that he’s just as scared and lost as everyone else.

He watches the Capitol’s lights twinkling below like oddly coloured stars, a chilly emptiness stirring up inside. The door opens behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look. Cael sits down, crossing their ankles over one another, poised as ever.

“It’s funny,” he starts without meaning to. “I kept hoping that today would turn out different. That someone would dramatically object or the wedding would be called off. I kept expecting for someone to come save me.” He looks at Cael out of his periphery and mutters, “no offense.” They nod.

They scoot a little closer, until their knee is touching his thigh. He doesn’t know why he’s talking, but he can’t stop now that he’s started. “Maybe that’s my problem; I keep expecting miraculous, impossible happy endings, and then getting disappointed when they don’t happen.”

Cael tries to sign something at him but he just shakes his head. He doesn’t know any. They scratch at their head and then reach into their pocket, pulling out a napkin. They grab a pen from behind their ear. Tony assumes they always have it there, for convenience sake.

He looks up at the sky and wonders where all the stars went. Maybe the Capital scrubbed them out of the night. Maybe they just left while he was busy looking somewhere else.

Cael taps him on the shoulder and hands him the napkin.

_ You’re a kid. That’s just what kids do. It’s not your fault. _

Tony stares at it. He blinks. He rubs his eyes. His breath catches and he steadies it for a few seconds before it’s catching again and he can’t get any air in. And then, finally, like an eruption, like a broken dam, he starts to cry.

He shakes with the force of it, with the sobs ripping through him. Cael puts an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close, holding him while time slips out of his hands.

He starts to calm down, but Cael doesn’t let go. They rub circles on his back as he hiccups and wipes his face, hot shame and relief welling up his chest all at once.

He clears his throat, swallowing down the tears and the bile. He coughs. Then, he laughs, pressing his hands over his closed eyes so he can’t cry anymore. “It’s my birthday today.”

Cael wraps both arms around him, tucking his head under their chin. They nod. He lets out another loud, hard sob into their shirt collar. “It’s my  _ fucking  _ birthday.”

They hug him tighter, and he will never get married in District Eleven, and he will never kiss anyone else, and nothing is going to be okay.


	4. October 6-7th, 82

"I have so much power over you." Tony's back straightens in his chair, but he makes an effort not to look at his stylist. She runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it, standing it up, pushing it back down. Her voice is breathy. "You're my first real tribute. Your life is in my hands right now. Your branding, your image, it all depends on what I do next. I could kill you without lifting a finger." He takes in a shaky breath. Her long, claw-like nails scrape over his scalp. The nails patter over his cheekbone. "I've never had power like that before."

"Neither have I," he mumbles.

"And you never will." Her tone lilts up and he can practically hear her smile. She sounds almost disbelieving. It's not meant to be malicious, at least he doesn't want to think so. She drums her fingers on his jawline. "That's crazy, isn't it? You could kill people in that arena and as soon as you came back I would have all the power again."

He scratches at his thumb with his index finger, lungs tightening. Her hand finds his hair again. She asks one of the Prep Team if they think she should dye his hair and the conversation is over.

-

The second tribute he ever mentors is a twelve-year-old boy with twigs for bones. His stylist threads begonias through his hair, highlights the colour of his eyes, and dooms him.

She looks older than when he last saw her, but maybe that's just his imagination. He smiles. He tells the boy to learn how to use a knife, tries not to spend too much time looking at the boy’s eyes, and doesn't cry about it.

She comes to him after their last dinner before the games, when the boy has gone to sleep. She puts a hand on his shoulder and tells him that the kid is going to die and to not feel too bad about it because it was always going to happen.

"Was it?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"I've watched a lot of games, Tony. I was an apprentice stylist for a long time. These are just things that you learn."

He examines the small glass of whiskey in her hand, tucking away inside of his chest the urge to pick it up and throw it across the room. "Did you know with me?"

She's silent for a long time. She tilts the glass, left to right, left to right, swishing around the alcohol in circles. Her nails aren't as sharp as they were last year.

"Yeah. I think I did. It was hard to figure it out, but there was something about your eyes that made me just kind of know."

He gets up from the table, opens the door to his room as quietly as he can, and then rushes to the bathroom. He dry heaves over the toilet bowl for a few minutes, tears burning in his eyes.

He wanted her to say no. He didn't want to believe that everyone saw the same thing he did.

He remembers her words from his first year and knows that she was wrong about one thing. He does have that kind of power now. He has that power over children from District Eleven who did not ask to die.

(And they all will, and they always will, and he will never see one grow.)

He nurses one warm thought to his sore, aching, shivering heart. He will never be alone again. There's nothing else, but at least he has that.

There's a knock on the door of his room, and his stylists voice comes through.

"My name is Leto, by the way. In case you wanted to know. You probably didn't. I know you don't like knowing their names, but I'm not a tribute, so I thought..."

There's a muttered curse and then stomping footsteps retreating back down the hall. Tony digs his nails into linoleum and steadies himself. He stands. He stumbles over to the sink and splashes the redness away from his face.

The boy dies in the bloodbath. Tony stands under the hot shower water for hours and scrubs any traces of the name out from under his skin. The name is red. Funny. He thought, for some reason, that it would be blue.

He thinks about his life in Leto's hands and he's scrubbing again before he knows it. Another name leaks out of his pores. He doesn't like to know their names. Getting attached makes it so much harder to know that they're going to leave.


	5. December 5th, 88

The Hovercrafts appear next to the rooftop.

Jamie feels like they can breathe for the first time in their life. The Rebellion has answered and they’re here and Jamie is going to be free.

Their chest tightens. Cancri is the first person to step into the Hovercraft, a smile that must hurt to wear stretching across their lips. Jamie is wearing no veil. They look up at Tony, holding out their joy on a platter for him. He can see it. They’re never hiding their face again.

A raindrop lands on their nose and they laugh. 

(For reasons they will not understand until later, the water tastes like an omen.)

His eyes have fallen closed, but there’s a gentle grin on his face. It’s nothing like his real smile, but it’s getting there. They reach out and grab onto his hand. This is the payoff they’ve been waiting for.

“We go on three,” he had said back in November, standing on the opposite side of Floor Eight’s swimming pool. “If we step right, we stay here. We mind our own business. We never speak of this again. If we step left, we leave.”

This is their reward for stepping left. Both of theirs.

“You’re gonna teach me how to cook,” Jamie says.

Tony opens his eyes and looks down at them. “What?”

“When we get to District Thirteen. You promised me when I first got to the tower that you’d teach me how to cook.”

Tony lets go of their hand, running it through his hair. They try not to feel a little sad about the lost warmth. “You still remember that?”

They elbow him and he bends, laughing softly. “Course I do. Someone has to hold you accountable for it.” He smiles at them with glossy eyes. The rain gets heavier. There are only about four other people besides them still not in one of the Hovercrafts. “Let’s go.” Jamie is twenty-one years old but they feel like a kid again right now. They start to walk forward but Tony stops them with a hand around their arm.

“Jamie?” They watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows heavily.

“What is it? Why aren’t we leaving?”

He opens his mouth but no sound comes out of it. His grip on their elbow loosens but doesn’t drop. “Do you remember your first night at the tower? When I made like, four stacks of pancakes and we had leftovers for two days?”   
  
Jamie smiles, a kernel of annoyance popping in their chest. “Yeah, of course, I remember. It was a ridiculous amount of food. Can we-?”

His grip gets tighter and he steps closer. Jamie takes a small step back, towards the Hovercraft. “Remember how after Cael and I got married we had to do a ton of streams together, and I stole a bunch of stuff from Floor Seven for you cause you wanted to see if they’d notice, and then Parker found it and punched me in the face? And then you got mad at Parker and you punched them and you guys had a whole fight? And you threw a gingerbread man at them?”

Jamie chuckles, smile turning nervous. Tony’s voice is breaking, his gaze shaky, and his nails are going to leave marks if his grip gets any tighter. “Tony? What’s wrong? Let’s just go, okay?”

Everyone else has already gotten on the Hovercrafts. The rain has turned into a downpour, plastering Tony’s hair down to his forehead and running down his face. His grip loosens so much that it’s barely there anymore. His eyes are the only thing keeping Jamie in place. They swallow.

He stutters over a syllable before finally getting out “I can’t.”

The ground is pulled out from under them. The void clutches them by the ankles, and instinct tells them to say a prayer. They don’t.

(For reasons they will not understand until later, they should have.)

“What?”

His mouth opens, and this time when nothing comes out he simply snaps it closed. A surge of anger runs through Jamie. They rip their arm out of his grasp, snarling. “You can’t go back on it now, Tony! You can’t!” They point at him accusingly. “You walked left. We both walked left. We agreed to this!”

Tony stumbles back as if they’ve pushed him. Jamie watches the water running down his face and wonders if it’s tears or not, listens to the rain that speaks louder than he ever could. He’s not coming with.

Jamie feels like their ribs are snapping inside of their chest. “You fucking coward!” They scream.

He says something, but it’s so quiet that it drips down the gutter with the rest of the storm. That’s when the doors burst open. Peacekeepers, their guns at the ready. Jamie reaches forward, grabbing for Tony’s arm, but he pulls away.

They say his name and he just shakes his head.

A gunshot rips through the air and Jamie breaks into a sprint for the Hovercrafts, which have already started to take off. They leap and a hand catches theirs, pulling them up and into the carrier. Cancri holds them as they fly up into the sky.

Jamie looks down at the rooftop. Part of them expects Tony to be dead, to have been killed by the Peacekeepers. Some sick part of them hopes for it, hopes that he’s being taken or he’s been killed just so they can avoid the only other possibility.

But he’s standing among them. One of their hands is on his shoulder. There are no cuffs around his wrist, no gun to his head. The doors of the Hovercraft close.

“Is anyone hurt?” They ask hoarsely.

They feel a drop of water hit their hand and for a second think the rain has somehow gotten in. But then they look up and see it’s a tear that’s rolled off Cancri’s face. “Tony? He- he didn’t- he couldn’t- he didn’t betray us, right? He wouldn’t-”

The words to make it all better rattle around Jamie’s mouth. They stumble over their tongue, dig their nails into the tender flesh of their cheeks, punch their way through their teeth. They try to push them together, try to form an answer, but it all slides down their throat before they can. They pull Cancri into a hug.

“He didn’t, right?”

Jamie squeezes tighter. Maybe the words were just a figment of their imagination. They don’t think that any words could ever fix this.


	6. December 5th-December 31st, 88

The first bruise is around his wrist  _ (His hair sticking to his forehead, Jamie’s eyes watching from the Hovercraft, a Peacekeeper wraps their hand around it to make sure he doesn’t sneak off and if he closes his eyes he can almost imagine that it’s the friendship bracelet Cancri made him during their first year in the tower). _

He cradles it after they let him go. Back to Floor Eight. Alone. He thought they would get there sooner, he thought he would make a difference. His stomach hurts.

Tony’s heart beats sluggishly in his chest, as apathetic as he is.

He tries to sleep on the floor but his bones ache too much. He tries to sleep in his bed but it’s too soft for him to feel like he deserves it. ( _ You’re a fucking coward)  _ He doesn’t sleep that night.

A letter has appeared on his kitchen counter in the morning.  _ I know you can do better than that, _ it reads.  _ Sincerely, President Uther. _

Tony’s hands shake. He sets down the letter and tries to make breakfast. He lets himself space out, floats around outside his body for a little while. He comes back into it and finds himself making pancakes.

He barely makes it to the bathroom before he vomits. The pancakes burn.

Tony gets a glass of water.

He sits down at the kitchen counter and wraps his arms around himself, feeling pathetic but not even trying to pretend that he isn’t imagining someone else giving him a hug.

-

His second bruise is on his shoulder  _ (Sweat running down his temple, a Peacekeeper shoving him into the wall, the low voice hissing in his ear “Maybe if you’d stalled a little longer we could have actually fucking done something”). _

It’s been eight years and he’s never stopped flinching away from them. He wonders if his mom is still a Peacekeeper, sometimes. He wonders if she’s even still alive. He wonders if he cares.

He wonders if the water running down his face on that rooftop was rain or tears, and then has to wonder which one he would prefer.

When he’s sixteen years old, Gabby offers him wine at a gala. She sips from her own glass of it. He swallows it and nearly chokes.

“It’s an acquired taste,” she tells him, smiling.

“It gets better though?” Somehow, he thinks they know that he isn’t just talking about the wine.

She takes another sip. She shrugs. “I’ve got no idea.”

-

It’s been a week since they left when his stylist wakes him up. He jerks up and she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t ask why he’s sleeping at the kitchen counter with his head pillowed in his arms, so at least he can be grateful for that.

“What’re you doing here?” She grabs him by the sweater and pulls him to his feet, inspecting his face.

“Cleaning you up. Making you presentable for the cameras. What else am I ever here for?”

Tony sits in front of a camera, hands shaking so hard he almost can’t read his cue cards. He feels like he’s about to be sick again.

“I- I am- I’m devastated by-”

The director snaps “Try again!” Tony hunches his shoulders, drawing into himself  _ (It’s a prey animal's instinct to fold into their body when threatened, protecting their vital organs-). _

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He bites down on his tongue till he tastes blood. He hates himself.

He straightens, coughs, and lets out a long breath. “I am devastated by the disappearance of my friends.”

Tony searches for the director and sees her nod. Just a few more practices and he can go live and then he can go home and then he can-

-

“I just want them to come home,” he tells the interviewer, two weeks in.

“I’m so sorry that your friends have been misguided like this.”

He swallows down the bile. Just say the line. One more line. Just one more line and then he can go home and then he can-

-

_ (He dreams about the games. The cave was warm. Lea lays beside him, but her bright orange hair is turning black, her body growing taller, her clothes changing. He’s had this dream before. It never gets any less terrifying. _

_ “Jamie?” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Please kill me.” _

_ “Jamie-” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “You’re a fucking coward.”) _

-

He stares into the camera, his chest tight, watching the words on the cue cards mirror each other and blur together and tumble off of the paper. “I can’t wait to-”

He chokes. The director gives him an icy glare. He’s live. There’s no messing up, he’s messing up, he’s going to die and he’ll never get to-

“I’m sorry.” Tony looks into the blinking red light and feels the hot tears run over the foundation. “Jamie, I’m sorry, I should have come with and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The Peacekeepers are coming forward and the light has turned off. He’s not live anymore, he’s not speaking to Panem or the Rebels or Jamie but he can’t stop. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-”

His third bruise is-  _ (“Did you shut the camera off? Fucking hell, you couldn’t do one thing! One fucking thing! Solstices, if that footage makes it out there I’m fucked. You stupid little shit. Can we teach this kid a lesson already?”) _

His fourth bruise is-

  
His fifth-

His-

_ (“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-”) _

-

Tony stands in the shower. The hot water runs over his burning skin and he thinks about the first time a Peacekeeper ever hit him. Jamie was furious. At the Peacekeeper, at him, at God.

They were so mad they cried. It wouldn’t be bruised for long, he told them, and they hugged him around the chest.

He made them hot cocoa, even though it was summer.

He gets out of the shower. He slips on his sweater. Swallowing under the damage to his throat hurts. He puts on the scarf Jamie gave him for New Years so many years ago and can almost pretend the blue-purple skin isn’t there.

He steps out of the bathroom. Lea is standing at the end of the hallway.

“You’re not real,” he tells her raspily.

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re dead,” he informs her.

“So?” She smiles and her braces catch the light. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

Tony shrugs, ignoring the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He brings a hand up to his face and presses his fingers down on the bruise over his cheekbone, trying to ground himself. He closes his eyes. When he opens them, Jamie is standing in Lea’s place, tapping their foot, arms crossed over their chest. He closes his eyes again and Lea is back.

“I’m a coward.”

Lea laughs. “Yeah, but we all knew that already. There has to be a better reason. Do you think you just liked it, watching me suffer? Did it make you feel powerful?”

Tony’s stomach turns like a sea in a storm. “No.”

Lea turns into Jamie again. “This is pathetic, Tony. I thought you were better than this.”

Tony wraps his arms around himself again. “I wasn’t,” he whispers. “This is the person I’ve always been.” He shuts his eyes tight.

Cancri’s voice comes from somewhere behind him. “Some fucking dad you are.”

He breathes in sharply and opens his eyes, but there’s no one in the hallway.

His next bruise is-  _ (He punches the wall so hard that his knuckles bleed). _

-

“I miss my friends. I just hope that I can see them again soon.”

A few more lines. A few more lines, and then he can go home, and then he can-


	7. 80, 81, 88

Tony doesn't sing anymore.

It used to be a habit when he was a lot younger. He sang his little brothers to sleep when his dad was too tired, and he sang while he was working, and when kids at school walked on eggshells with him or pushed him around because his mom was a peacekeeper, he could always find a song that would make him feel better.

He and Lea whistled to each other as a code. Whenever she was leading back a tribute to the cavern, she could whistle a familiar tune and the Mockingjays would pick it up and he would know that she was coming. He could get into position, ready to push another child off a cliff and then push it out of his head.

He sang Lea to sleep while she died. He held her. He sang the only lullaby he could think of. He sang it for hours. He's never had a pretty voice but it's always been good for putting little kids to sleep and for background noise to work to and for too-loud holiday music with friends and that's always been worth a lot more. He sang Lea to sleep when she died, even when he was crying and barely keeping it together and unable to think about anything other than how much he fucking hated himself he just kept singing.

The tower is empty. It's quiet. He tried to talk to himself for the first few weeks, but his voice creates negative space and somehow makes the quiet even quieter. He streams, so he talks then, but the idea of singing for an audience feels dirty. He might as well pry open his ribcage and show the whole world what his insides look like.

Tony doesn't sing anymore.

He meets Jamie and Tony tells himself that he'll start singing again, but he doesn't. The songs are still inside him, somewhere, but they're buried underneath layers of sweaters and branding and artificially smooth skin.

They have nightmares, just like he does. Of course, they do. He didn't expect anything 

else.

He's there. Of course, he is. He couldn't live with himself if he wasn't.

They stumble into the living area one night while he's reading, shaky, hardly breathing, tears running down their face, and he sets down the book. It's only been a few weeks, but he's gotten used to this routine. He's already made hot chocolate. Even if they won't drink it, at least they'll have something to warm their hands.

"Hey," he says gently, putting the mug on the coffee table next to his own cup. Their cries are more choked than normal, and every breath they take sounds like they’re inhaling gelatin. "Just focus on breathing, kid. It's okay."

"I can't- I can't-"

It would be a much more uncomfortable scene if he hadn't seen himself at worse. "It's alright, Jamie. Do you want a hug?"

They look surprised. He swallows, wondering if he's said the wrong thing, but they nod and he wraps them up in an embrace. He breathes slowly. He remembers his dad teaching him this trick when he was thirteen, shaky and recovering from his whipping. People will naturally match each other's breathing. Give them a hug. Keep yourself calm.

"What are you humming?" Jamie asks, voice still shaky but less tight, and he stops. He hadn't even realized he was doing it. "No, don't- you don't have to stop. It's not bad. I just wanted to know what song it was." They yawn against his chest.

"It's an old District Eleven song."

"Can you sing it?"

"I don't remember most of the lyrics."

"Please?"

Tony is about to refuse, but he promised himself he would try. And Jamie needs a good distraction right now. He clears his throat a little.  _ "When that Pharaoh chariot comes, I'm gonna leave you." _ He pauses for a moment, forgetting the next few lines.  _ "I'm sorry I'm gonna leave you... I'll meet you in the morning, I'm bound for the promised land. On the other side of Jordan, I'm bound for the promised land." _ He hums the rest of the song, even a few others he can't remember the names of, until he realizes that Jamie has fallen asleep in his arms.

He smiles lightly. He probably didn't sound good, but it's nice to know that it's still useful for something.

(Jamie leaves. His voice is negative space. A peacekeeper chokes him when he disobeys, and it hurts too much to talk when he’s not told to. Tony doesn't sing anymore.)


	8. December 5th, 88 - July 21st, 89

Jamie hates a lot of things about District Thirteen.

They’re sharing a room with Cancri, Kenny, and Saph, sleeping on a hard mattress on top of a bunk bed with no privacy. Saph snores. All of them have nightmares and all of them are too proud to ask for comfort afterwards.

The food is bland and never warm. The concrete floors send chills up their body.

But the thing they hate the most is the television, playing Capitol propaganda day in and day out. Because even though they hate it, they can’t stop watching.

They walked in at the wrong time.

Saph saw them and put an arm around their shoulders, guiding them out of the room before they could hear more than a sentence. Jamie’s hands are shaking. They can feel a scream swelling up in the middle of their chest but they can’t let it out. “You shouldn’t watch those.”

Some words clamber over the emotions. “Do you think he means it? That he wants us to come back?”   
  
Saph sighs. Jamie shrinks into themself. They hate disappointment in general, but Saph’s and Tony’s have always hurt a little more. Saph removes her arm and gestures around the air like she does when she needs to emphasize a point. “He’s not- he didn’t write the fucking speech, y’know? He’s reading off a card. I’m sure he misses you and all that shit, cause he’s a bitch like that, but he’s never gonna say what he means on there. And even if he did,” Saph narrows her eyes and points at Jamie, “that doesn’t mean shit. You don’t have anything to feel bad about, y’hear me? You don’t.”

And Jamie wants to believe that. They want so badly to believe that.

They lay in bed that night thinking about Kenny’s arrival to the tower.. Tony’s first words to new arrivals were always “Are you hungry?” Jamie thinks it was just his built-in instinct, to ask that before he read the cue card.

Jamie said yes. Cancri shrugged. Kenny looked like she was about to have a panic attack and asked where her room was.

She didn’t come out for a long time. Tony was too nervous to approach her, especially after Cancri told him that Kenny was accusing them of poisoning the food. He cooked for hours on end. He hardly dared to walk past her room.

Jamie made sure that Kenny had moved on from talking about the games before her and Tony had a single interaction. They didn’t want a repeat of The Fight, when Tony spent all his time on Floor Seven, shutting everyone out.

“I don’t want to be reminded of it,” he told them. “But the next time you see her, will you ask what her favourite food is?”

That was just Tony, Jamie had learned. Someone could hurt him so bad he wanted to hide in his room until they left but he would still go out of his way to make their favourite food.

The room is too cold. Jamie kicks off their blankets and tries to sleep off nausea.

-

Jamie hates a lot of things about District Thirteen but Tony’s third broadcast is the worst part.

They don’t know why they’re still watching Capital TV. His interview with Elle last week made their stomach churn. The commercials stop and he comes into focus, wearing a sweater they’ve never seen him and his scarf, always his scarf. He’s looking slightly to the side of the camera, clearly reading off a script.

“Despite how the manipulative rebels have tried to deceive them, I know that my fellow victors will see through their lies soon enough.” His voice is shaky. Jamie hears the barely audible sound of someone behind the camera clearing their throat and he straightens up in his chair. “I can’t wait-”

He stops. Then, he’s crying.

“I’m sorry. Jamie, I’m sorry, I should have-”

The camera turns off. Jamie’s fingers go cold and their throat tightens until they can’t get any air in. They can feel eyes on them, feel the questions floating in the air but they can’t speak to answer, they can’t even breathe.

Saph is muttering curses under her breath. The door slams as Cancri leaves. Jamie puts a hand over their mouth and tries not to cry.

“Fucking idiot,” Saph says.

They feel a hand on their shoulder and find an awkward-looking Parker connected to it. “Are you okay?” Parker stops, their resting glare smoothing over in a way that looks too forced to be genuine. “Do you want a hug or something?”

Jamie shakes their head.

It’s not right. Why did he have to be such an idiot? Why couldn’t he just go with and make things simple? * _ It would have been so simple.* _

He’s going to get himself killed.

Cancri grabs them by the arm and takes them out of the room, away from the blaring commercials. Jamie doesn’t look where they’re going, their head fuzzy and their body out of reach.

“Hey, Jamie, breathe. Please, calm down. Do you wanna go to the infirmary? I should take you to the-”

“I’m fine.”

Jamie realizes that they’re sitting on their bed. They pull their knees to their chest. “Maybe you should just go. I’ll be fine.”

Cancri scuffs their foot against the floor. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Cancri ignores the way their voice cracks, which they’re thankful for. “I just need to be alone right now.”

They can’t cry, so they sleep.

Tony appears in an interview with Elle next week. He’s wearing a scarf and more foundation than ever. Jamie is going to vomit.

“I hope they come home soon.”

Parker kicks over a garbage can and screams.

-

Jamie dreams about the broadcast. About what might have happened afterward.

They want to punch him. They want to cry. They want to hug him so tight they stop being separate people. They never want to speak to him again.

-

Saph is drinking. They’re the only two people in the room, maybe the only two people * _ awake* _ , watching Ozzie get married to someone she doesn’t love.

Tony walks them down the aisle.

“Do you think they know that he’s younger than her?” Saph asks, and Jamie laughs.

“Don’t you know that Tony was born thirty?”

Saph chuckles and offers the glass of wine. Jamie shrugs and takes it. They taste it and nearly spit it back out, coughing.

“Yeah, that’s about what I expected. It’s an acquired taste.”

-

Jamie is playing connect the dots on the ceiling when Vera practically kicks down the door. They jolt up. “What the hell?”

“Fier’s here.”

“Who?”   
  
“Ozzie’s girl.”

Jamie jumps off the bed, pushing past Vera and running down the hallway. Sure enough, there’s a girl surrounded by guards at the entrance, her hands in the air, her clothes torn and tears streaming down her face.

“She just told me to run. You have to go back for her, please, you have to, you have to-”

Her voice is lost when she disappears around the corner.

Somehow, Parker finds Jamie’s eyes. * _ Midnight, _ * they mouth. Jamie nods.

They sneak out of their room at the specified time and find Parker waiting in the shadows around the corner. They pull Jamie into a broom closet.

“They’re going back for Ozzie,” Parker starts. “They have to, when a real wedding would make such a statement about the Capitol and happiness and shit. So when they do-”

“You wanna get Elle.” It’s not a question. Parker nods anyway.

  
“And you want to get Tony.”

Jamie hesitates for only a split second. They hate themselves afterwards, because of course, they want him back, but then they hate themselves more for that. They want Tony back. But do they want whoever he is now?

The Tony they knew wouldn’t have betrayed them, they think. But that’s a lie, isn’t it? He was the same person on that rooftop and in those broadcasts as he’s always been. He’s always been capable of this.

And they’ve always loved him anyways, haven’t they?

_ *(Haven’t they?)* _

“Yeah. Of course I do.”

-

It’s a long month.

Jamie starts drinking coffee for the first time in their life so that they can stay up with Parker, mapping out the tower by memory. There’s no cream or sugar in District Thirteen, so they drink it black. It’s the worst thing they’ve ever tasted. They learn to like it.

Parker is bitter and quiet and breaks things when they’re mad. Jamie has never used so many pencils. They learn to like them.

“I’m worried,” Jamie finally admits. “I’m worried that I’ll forgive him, and he’ll never learn. Or that I’ll get him back and I won’t be able to forgive him, and we’ll never be friends again, cause- I fucking miss him, and I want to sock him in the jaw but I fucking miss him.”

Parker is silent for a while. “I’m trying to think of a way to help, but I don’t really know. It’s hard.”

“Yeah,” Jamie replies quietly, spitefully. “Yeah, it is.”

-

It’s a long month.

Kenny throws pebbles at the wall of their bedroom. “Can you quit it?” Saph bites.

“No.”

Jamie holds their pillow around their head and tries to get in a few hours before their meeting with Parker.

“I’m trying to sleep, you little shit. Cut it out.”

“What are you gonna do about it? Set the room on fire?”

Jamie sits up straight. “Shut it! Both of you! I know we’re dealing with a lot right now but that’s not an excuse. Now Solstices, go to bed.”

They flop back down and ignore the tense silence. Is this how Cancri felt during its first year in the tower? Is this how Tony felt all the time?

They press their hands over the eyes. They have a headache. It’s cold.

They dream about falling asleep with their head on Tony’s shoulder as he rambled on about old things he’d found in the library. Old books about slaughterhouses, old movies about boats, old recordings of musicals.

They watched one of the musicals together. He sang along under his breath, sometimes. Jamie thought that the man was pretty.

Tony called him Orpheus.

Jamie never liked that tape. They’ve never liked unhappy endings.

-

  
  


It’s a long day.

The Hovercraft should only have rebel soldiers, but Tony and Parker aren’t here because they’re allowed to be. They went through morning check-ins and then disappeared. Parker bribed the cafeteria guards to let them out before they got in line. Jamie left a note under Cancri’s pillow.

Jamie stole the pistols.

They’re hiding in the luggage compartments. At some point, Parker falls asleep. Jamie doesn’t.

Jamie wakes them up when the chatter beneath them starts sounding like “Almost there.” It takes another ten minutes.

They wait for the last footstep to exit the Hovercraft and then jump down, sneaking out the back and dropping onto the roof of the tower. Jamie feels a rush of emotion and a horrible sickness in their stomach. It’s been five months since they were here. It’s so little and yet so much time.

Parker grabs their hand and shakes it, grip tight. “Good luck.”

“You too. And thank you.”

For the first time since they met, Parker smiles. “No problem.”

And they’re off.

It’s a short walk. All things considered, all the build-up and the planning taken into account, it’s a short walk. Down some stairs. Take a left. Straight to hell. It’s just a floor. It’s a short walk.

And then they’re in Floor Eight again. It’s hard to breathe. The place is a mess. They can spot the shattered cup on the kitchen floor from here. The fruit bowl was clearly thrown against the wall at some point, because it too is in pieces on the ground. There are blankets and pillows on the couch.

Jamie moves closer, almost without thinking. They wonder if the room still smells like hot chocolate. Like Tony.

Several things happen at the same time. First, the door creaks open. Second, Jamie turns and sees Tony’s face again for the first time in half a year. Third, a voice from behind the door says “You did real shit today.” And fourth, Jamie ducks.

They hold their breath, pressing a hand over their mouth. They’re hidden by the couch, but that’s nothing.

“I know,” they hear Tony mutter.

  
  


“You’re quiet today. Are you taking fucking morphine again? You know you’re not allowed to do that.”

“No.”

They’re walking in together, why is the Peacekeeper walking in with him, they’re going to get caught he’s going to sell them out again they’re gonna-

“What are you- get off!”   
  
“Stop.”

“I’m doing my fucking job,” the Peacekeeper growls. “If I wanna inspect your shit, I can.”

“I told you to back the fuck off, are you-” The words are lost to the sound of something heavy slamming against the wall. The room shakes.

“I thought I already told you not to talk back to me.”

The air turns liquid. Jamie’s lungs shrink. What’s going on? Tony’s getting hurt. They can’t breathe, what do they do, what do they, what do they?

The choked gasping noises are going to make them vomit.

They blink and they’re standing, gun out of it’s holster, pointing at the back of the Peacekeepers head. “Drop him.”

The Peacekeeper turns, freezes, drops Tony to the ground, and then reaches for his hip.

Jamie shoots.

Tony’s coughing. They can focus on that. A man is dead and Jamie killed someone and they’re rescuing the man who nearly got them killed but he’s here and he’s coughing and they’re getting out of here.

He looks up at them, eyes teary. His throat is already red. He has a black eye. He picks his sweater off of the ground and a high pitched whining noise comes out when he tries to say something. Jamie holds out a hand.

Tony takes it.

Then they’re running, up the stairs, and it is a long walk with Tony practically clinging on to them for support but they make it.  _ Up the stairs, climb out of hell, don’t look behind you, Orpheus, don’t be a fool. _

The pair of them blend in with the soldiers piling on. They find Parker in the back, Elle clinging to their hand like it’s the only thing keeping her alive.

There is blood on their shoes. Tony sits down on the floor, his legs pulled up his chest, clutching his scarf, and Jamie does not ask if they can hug him, even though part of them wants to.

The Hovercraft picks up.  _ Don’t look behind you. _

-

  
  


Tony isn’t saying anything.

At first, Jamie thought it was the adrenaline getting to him. But then they left the tower. They got back to District Thirteen. And he still hasn’t said a word.

To be fair, they haven’t exactly sought him out.

But they’re done avoiding him. They have to talk, they have to get it out of their system, they have to drain the infection in the wound or they will never get better. So after a week of waiting, they’re finally here.

Somehow, Tony looks worse.

He’s still in the med-bay, a cast on his arm. He’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, reading a book, and when Jamie pushes open the door they hear him humming. Their ribcage tightens. “Hey,” they manage.

Tony looks up from his book, his humming stops, and he stares. “Jamie,” he whispers, so quiet they can barely hear. His voice is hoarse. “What-” he breaks into a violent coughing fit, pressing his mouth into the elbow of his hospital gown. Jamie fidgets in place, feeling webs of discomfort start to weave together in their stomach.

“Hey,” they say again, at a loss for what else they’re supposed to say.

He stops coughing, his shoulders still quivering, a light smile on his face. “Sorry. For the-” he gestures at his throat. Jamie is used to seeing him with his scarf. He is not wearing his scarf. The only thing around his neck is dark purple bruises in the shape of fingers.

Jamie’s throat burns as if their stomach acid has crawled up and made itself at home. “‘S alright.” They grab the back of their neck. “Can we talk?” They step closer to his bed, anxiety still wound tight around their spine.

Tony’s eyes flicker to the door as if he’s thinking of making a break for it. The anxiety grips tight enough that it turns into anger. Of course, he would think of that. His fingers drum along his knee without any rhythm, and his eyes dart to the one-way window. Is he trying to get the doctors to intervene?

For the long few seconds that Jamie stands on the threshold between having the conversation and backing out, they can’t help but hate him. He’s stupid, and a coward, and he did this to himself, and he should have come with them, and viciously, they hate him. For everything he was and wasn’t. For being there for them and then staying behind when they needed him. For being a shitty person and for being too good for them. For putting his stupid fantasy of a world where everyone could be happy above everything else, even Jamie.

They want to pull him into a hug so tight that they meld into each other and they hate him so fucking much.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. Jamie’s skin goes cold, goosebumps running over it. That fucking broadcast. They still haven’t stopped dreaming about it, even though it’s been months, even though there are more terrifying things in their head. The camera cut before he’d gotten all the way through their name, and it’s never been re-aired, but they can’t forget it.

As angry as they still were with him, the hot terror in their stomach was real. When they saw the next broadcast, the duller look in his eyes, the skillfully placed foundation that was always slightly too tan for him, that a normal person wouldn’t be able to see but which Jamie could recognize instantly, only made it worse. They know how stylists hide bruises.

They hold up a hand, taking a step closer. “Don’t say sorry. Don’t make me feel bad for you.” They meant to sound cool and detached, but they can’t put a stopper on the emotion swelling in their voice. “Stop being the victim, Tony. Just deal with the fact that I’m still pissed.”

“How-” he coughs a little more- “how do you want me to deal with it?”

A fresher surge of anger runs through them. “Stop! This is what I’m talking about. Just shut up and let me be mad at you- because I’m right to be mad at you. Stop apologizing, stop looking so damn pathetic, and just be the bad guy so I can stop feeling like shit about being angry at you!”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, hunching into himself. Jamie groans, hot tears building in the back of their eyes as they watch his glaze over.

They choke on a cut-off sob. “Why do you always have to make things so complicated?”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters again, hands coming up around his head, protecting his neck. “I’m sorry.”

Jamie tilts their head back to keep the tears from running down their face. Once they’re not in danger of crying, they turn on their heel and stomp over to the door. They close it and cut him off in the middle of another apology. They can't tell how long he goes on for. They don't want to know.

-

Kenny is throwing rocks at the wall.

“Have you talked to him yet?” Jamie asks, sitting down on their bed.

“No. I don’t wanna.”

“Understandable.”

“How is he?”

Jamie pauses. “Different. Jumpy.” They swallow and spend a few seconds trying to remember how to breathe. “I think he’s scared of me.”

One rock strikes the wall especially violently. “Tony’s scared of everything.”

“He’s never been scared of me.”

-

Tony’s been discharged from the medical wing, but he still eats lunch there. That makes Jamie bristle in all the wrong ways, but they can’t complain about it, not while they’re still barely speaking to him.

He says he wouldn’t be welcomed in the lunchroom, and Jamie can’t tell him that it’s not true.

Ozzie corners Jamie after lunch, a goofy smile on her face. “Can we talk?”

Jamie nods. Ozzie drags them off to a secluded hallway and then pulls a ring out of her pocket.

“I’m gonna ask her. Cael gave me this before I left. They said it would look better on someone who wanted it. Can you ask Tony for his?”

Jamie smiles back, awkwardly patting Ozzie on the shoulder. They don’t have the heart to say no.

Jamie looks around the infirmary and can’t find him anywhere. After a couple of minutes spent searching, they ask a nurse, who points them to the ladder leading to the surface. “He has guards with him, of course, but the doctor thought that a few minutes of sunlight would be good for him.”

_ *A few minutes of sunlight would be good for all of them,* _ Jamie thinks, a little bitter.

The ground on top of District Thirteen is as rocky as it was when they first arrived, but it looks different in the day. Softer. They can see flowers growing in between the cracks of stone.

They can also see Tony, sitting on a boulder, looking out over the distant expanse of grass and trees.

His eyes are closed. His bruises are starting to fade, but Jamie can still see the light purple peeking out of his scarf. He’s wearing his scarf again. There are guards, but they’re standing closer to the hatch that leads to District Thirteen. Jamie flashes their ID badge and traverses the terrain until they’re right behind him.

“Hey.” Tony starts, his eyes flying open, but he seems to mostly calm down when he sees that it’s just them.

“Hello, Jamie.” Jamie looks at his hands and sees them shaking. He shoves them under his arms.

Jamie steps closer to the rock and Tony moves over so they can squeeze on. It’s hard not to get close enough to touch, but they make an effort. “Do you have your ring?”

Tony looks at them strangely but nods.

“Wanna give it to Ozzie?”

He shrugs. “Sure.”

The words Jamie wants to say rest at the back of their tongue, but they hold them in for a few seconds longer so that they can both enjoy the way the afternoon sun paints the world gold. Jamie breathes in and tucks the smell of pine needles inside of their chest.

“Happy birthday,” Jamie says.

“Hm?” 

Jamie looks at Tony, confused. “It’s your birthday today, isn’t it?”

He laughs, small and soft, and covers his mouth with his hand. “No, it’s tomorrow. But you didn’t get it wrong, I told you the wrong day.”

A needle of annoyance pokes at them. “What? Why would you do that?”

Tony takes his hand off his mouth to run it through his hair. “I, uh, well I was getting married at the time, remember? And it’ll be my anniversary tomorrow because I got married on my birthday. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to come back to the tower to celebrate with you, so I told you that my birthday was the day before, so we could have a party.” He stops, blinks, and then laughs again with a more satirical edge. “Also to lessen the disgustingness for you, of the whole ‘married off the second I was legal,’ thing.”

Jamie stares at a blade of grass by his foot, watching it sway in the wind. Their heart is swimming through cement. Some feeling inside of them has snatched away their lungs and they don’t know what to call it.

“Thank you,” they murmur. “And happy early birthday, I guess.”

He smiles. “Thanks.” There’s another long quiet. For a second, they think he’s humming, but it’s just the wind.

He brings his hands out from under his arms and places them on his lap, staring at them. Jamie follows the swirling line of his fingerprint with their eyes. “Do you think it’ll get better?” He asks. His voice is scratchy and full like he hasn’t recovered at all.

“Do I think what will?” They ask in turn, even though they think they know what he’s going to say.

“Us, life,” he says, and then, quieter, “Me.”

Jamie stops for a long second, setting their forearms on their legs and leaning forward to lock eyes with the view. “I don’t know.”

“Then what’s the point?” Jamie feels an already fractured piece of their heart shatter. Tony’s supposed to be the optimist here. They’re not good at comfort, not good at finding the bright side. They’ve never learned how to help Tony when he needs it, and part of that is because he never let them, but another part is that they didn’t want to. They wanted to believe that he was capable. That he had it together. So they chose to, and even when they knew it wasn’t true, they never acted like it.

“The point…” They reach a hand into their chest, running their fingers over their ribcage to find the words carved in there. They watch Tony push tears away before they fall. “The point is that you’re going to be twenty-four tomorrow. That’s the point. That’s it. Despite all the shit you had to wade through to get there, you got there. You shouldn’t even be alive.” Their voice catches and they refuse to turn their head. They pick a tree and stare at it until all the bark blurs together. “You’re a strong motherfucker for living through all of that, and now you’re here. Despite everything trying to keep you from getting here, you’re here.

“The point is that I’m gonna bake you a cake tomorrow. Or, I’m gonna try to bake a cake, and then I’m gonna get Cancri’s help because you still haven’t taught me how to cook. And the point is that you’re gonna teach me how to cook.” They shove the tree out of their vision and turn to look at Tony, at the messy hair and the glasses and the scarf they knitted him, and they put their hands on either side of his head so that he’s looking them directly in the eyes. They feel their fingers in his hair and watch the colours in his eyes. 

“And the point is that you’re twenty-four, and how amazing is that? You’re twenty-four, Tony, and you fuck up a lot but you are my best friend and you’re * _ alive.*  _ And that is fucking incredible.”

They lower their hands to his shoulders and pull him into a hug. Tony holds them so tight that they feel like their shoulder blades are pressing together. He digs his nails into their back. “You’ve been hanging out with Saph too much,” he mumbles, and they squeeze him tighter.

“Shut up.”

They hear him swallow. It might just be their imagination, but his hair still smells like hot chocolate. “So that’s it, then? The point is just- getting older? Doing the things you haven’t done?”

Jamie rests their chin on top of his shoulder. They don’t think the words were written on their ribs. They don’t know where they came from, where they’re coming from. Maybe they were in the grass or trapped between the cracks in the rock. Maybe they were a gift Jamie never even knew they were given. Maybe they’ve been there this whole time.

“The point is just living. You are a person and you are alive and that is good enough. That is the point, that’s the reason that you keep going and you stay alive and it’s the reason you’re * _ here _ ,* with me, right now. You don’t need a point. * _ You _ * are the point.”

He breathes and they feel it. Jamie never realized they missed him this much, but hugging him again is relieving a bitter ache inside them. A hot tear lands on their shoulder.

“Thank you,” he sobs.

They hug him tighter and swear on the Solstices that they’re never letting go again.


	9. December 2nd, 82

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain

Tony is still trying to figure out what he’s doing when the elevator doors open.

He’s only been to Floor Six a couple of times, and all of them were under better circumstances than right now. He grabs onto the bar in the elevator for support. Keeping himself upright is even more important than figuring out what his speech is going to be when he encounters someone.

The door opens. The living room is full of people. Tony shrinks back into the elevator.

Lesia enters his swimming vision, holding the elevator doors open. He steps out. “Tony? What are you- Holy shit, what happened?”

The words trip over his tongue, which is too big for him and too much for him and too much responsibility and he can’t talk and he can’t do anything right and-

The words are enough to burn his tongue. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Lesia puts a hand on his back, saying something in a concerned voice, and then she’s walking forward and he’s following because he doesn’t know where else to go. He scratches at the skin below his nose and at the blood beginning to crust there. 

Tony stares at the floor, at his bare feet and the cuffs of his pants. He watches the tiles blur together. Suddenly, Lesia stops, and Tony bumps into her. He tries to apologize but his mouth is still too small for the words to make it out.

A door opens. Lesia guides him inside, her fingers ghosting his, barely touching at all. She pulls him along and it feels a little like dancing. Then, she sits him down on her bed and grabs a white t-shirt from the closet. She heads into the bathroom and he hears the faucet running, entangling itself with the static playing in his head. She comes back and kneels down in front of him.

“What happened?” She presses the wet t-shirt to his upper lip, starting to clean away the blood.

His mouth is heavy and cotton-stuffed, but he manages to slur out “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

The look Lesia gives him is stern. Tony wraps his arms around his chest, squeezing himself tightly, digging his fingers into the bruises in his side. “Tony.”

His heart drops. Now she’s disappointed in him. He’s on a fucking roll today, isn’t he? “I…” Tony shrugs half-heartedly.

“Can you at least tell me where it hurts?”

He loosens his grip around his chest, letting his hands fall. “Ribs,” he finally answers. “Shoulder. Everywhere.”

Lesia opens her dresser and pulls out bruise ointment, and he doesn’t want to know why she has it, so he doesn’t ask. “Who did it?” She puts a little of the yellow ointment on her fingers, but he takes the tube from her hands and shakes his head.

“I can do it myself.”   
  


“Who did it?” Her voice is even lower.

Tony takes off his sweater but keeps on the thin t-shirt underneath. He rubs a little of the ointment onto his shoulder.

“Tony.”

“Stop.”

_ “Tony.” _

He clenches his hand into a fist, digging his nails into the flesh of his palm. “I said stop. I’m not- you’d just end up making things worse.” Tears build up behind his eyes for the second time today. Solstices, he is so out of his depth here. What is he  _ doing? _

Lesia stands now, towering over him for once, and Tony shrinks back into the mattress. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means no!” Tony digs his fingers into the bruise again, as if that will bring him back down to Earth, or maybe wake him up from the living nightmare that his life has become. “So drop it.” She looks surprised or offended, or maybe something else he can’t make out through his blurry vision. Did they break his glasses? He takes his glasses off and inspects them, but they’re fine.

“It was the peacekeepers.”

Tony’s head snaps up. “Lesia!”

“I won’t. If you don’t want me to, I won’t.” She steps back. Then forward again. “But can you tell me why you’re here?”

Tony leans forward like he’s protecting something in his hands. That’s when he realizes that his vision is blurry because of tears, and weirdly, that makes him want to cry more. He hasn’t cried since he got married, and that was months ago.

“I- I was just- we were talking, and- and-”

The sob is enough to break him in half. Lesia pulls him into a hug before he can get another word out, and it’s crushing and it hurts but he hardly even feels it, the way his lungs are compressing. His breath catches on another cry. He tastes salt. He breathes in, shaky and weighted.

“We were talking in Cancri’s room. And- and they came. And I walked out, and then they-” Tony cuts himself off, not knowing how to continue that thought. He leans into Lesia’s arms. It feels like his lungs have been chopped in half and sewn back up, not able to take in enough air but forced to do that job. “Can and Jamie were- they were right there, they were listening, and Can only just got here and they must’ve been so scared. I fucked up, Les, I-”

Tony wraps his arms around Lesia, bunching up the back of her shirt in his hands. He’s probably ruined the shirt with his tears and snot and blood already, might as well add a few wrinkles. Ruins everything he fucking touches.

She pulls him in closer. She doesn’t respond. He’d like to think that she doesn’t know what to say, even though he knows that she agrees. Cancri’s barely been in the tower for a few months, they’d just started coming out of their room, and now he’s fucked them up again, all because he can’t stand up for himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely.

She puts a hand behind his head, threading her fingers through his hair. “It’s alright. It’s not your fault, kid.”

He hugs her as tight as he can. “I miss my dad.”

The rest of the night is quiet. There isn’t anything left to say.


	10. February 17th, 89-August 10th, 89

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> since i saw vienna by wilbur soot that is all

Tony goes to District Eight first.

He tries to go to District Eleven but it doesn't fit right, doesn't make sense to leave Jamie right now, so instead, he goes to District Eight with them. He puts his hands in his pockets and smiles a little as he watches them take in the factories he'll never stop finding hideous with a grin across their teeth bright enough to shatter skies.

He thought he'd be wearing something different, now that he's free. He thought he'd be wearing overalls again.

Not fit for the weather, he thinks. It's too cold up in eight for farmers clothes. He wears a t-shirt and a rebel soldiers jacket.

He walks Jamie back to their parent's house and watches them hug and cry and he kind of thinks that they'll hate him but instead their dad just puts a hand on his shoulder and says "Thank you for helping." And for some reason, out of all the things that have happened this month, that's the one that almost makes Tony cry.

Their mother asks if he'd like to stay for dinner. He smiles, feels his cheeks warm up a little, scratches at the back of his head and says "I don't think I can, Maam. Thank you for the offer."

"Why not?" Jamie looks up at him, their face all pinched up.

"I have to go," he says. "I'll call you."

Neither of them mentions that that isn't really an answer, and Tony leaves. District Eight was one of the few places even a little okay after the rebellion. They don't need much help here. So Tony grabs his bag from District Thirteen, which has more medical supplies than clothes and goes to District Twelve, where they do.

It's hotter down in Twelve, but he doesn't take off the coat.

He comes into the hospital tent, taps a doctor on the shoulder, and then opens his bag. "I have supplies in here. How can I help?"

The doctor lets out this odd noise, like a laugh and a sob got mixed up inside and puts two hands on his shoulder. "Solstices, I could kiss you right now."

"Please don't."

She laughs again, less wet this time, and takes her hands way. "Seriously, thank you, thank you so much."

Tony shifts back on his feet, feeling altogether too tall and too human and too much for this tent. "What do you want me to do?"

"Do you know how to bandage wounds?" Tony smiles at that because his face can't find anything else to do.

"Yes."

She tells him that her name is Ariadne, first, and then tells him to go and bandage up the people in the beds right next to the intensive care. So Tony does it.

Ariadne talks a lot, which makes up for how many words Tony loses in the cracks behind people's beds. "I grew up in Two and I wanted to be a doctor cause it paid, but I got attached to the job and now people need my help, so I'm helping them."

"I knew a kid from Two," he says and tries not to question his own use of past tense. "They said it was pretty."

Ariadne swallows hard and Tony has said the wrong thing, again.

He wonders, distantly, if she knows who he is, or if he looks so unfamiliar without the sweaters and the clean-shaven face that she doesn't recognize him.

He doesn't remember learning a lot about District Two, but he learned enough. He stays in District Twelve for a month, and he salutes Ariadne when he leaves. She salutes back and then hugs him tight around the middle.

He leaves the only sweater he still had in his bag because he wants more room for medical supplies when he refills at Thirteen. His bag is the heaviest it's ever been.

He goes to District Six next, even though he could go to Eleven. It feels good to take care of people again.

This time, he's searched before he enters the medical tent. He shows the guards (Not Peacekeepers, not really, just kids wearing bullet-proof vests and carrying guns, but enough like Peacekeepers to make his heart hitch) the inside of his bag. They finally conclude that he's safe to go through.

He waves down one of the many doctors. "Supplies?" He asks, and the person taps their ear. Tony sets the bag on the ground and signs it. The person nods. He signs extra hands? and the doctor takes a look around before shaking their head.

_Next city over,_ the doctor signs. _They need people. And sign teachers._ They kick the bag towards him a little and say _take half to them._

Tony has seen some of the worst things the world has to offer and still, humanity never stops amazing him. That unflinching kindness. He can grow weary of life and of holding it all together and of the horrible things people do, but then comes these tiny moments that knock the breath out of his chest.

_ Okay. Thank you. _

The doctor doesn't smile, but they nod, and if Tony tilts his head a little they're almost the same. They grab a pen and write down the in-need town name on his hand. So he leaves, travels away, and he finds it.

The doctor was right. They've got half the patients but a quarter of the doctors, each scrambling around the tent in a desperate attempt to save everyone's life. Tony finds one, who is sitting at a bedside hunched over xirself. He holds up the bag. "Would you like some help?"

The doctor looks up at him with eyes so desperate and aching it gives him second-hand heartache. "Please."

He sets the bag on their lap, watches as xe opens it, and then watches xir burst into tears. Xe wipes it off quick, gives him a heavy "Thank you" in returns for the bag, and then speeds off. Tony turns to the bed xe was sitting on and finds a little girl.

"Hey," he starts, and the girl doesn't turn to look at him. Oh. It makes sense that a lot of people would lose their hearing because of the bombs, but it doesn't make the guilty weight on his chest disappear.

He pushes the thoughts of the girl aside and moves into the most intense area of the hospital tent.

He takes orders when given and he's up all night working. He wants nothing more than to fall asleep, maybe take a bath so hot it melts off the top layer of his skin. He doesn't do either of those things. Instead, he goes to the little girl, who is also awake now, and he starts to teach her letters in sign.

Her name is Indigo. He stays for five weeks. At some point, he gets a book, and he writes down the names and everything he knows about her and Ariadne and everyone he's met so far, because even if he doesn't quite know why he's doing it, he knows that it's important.

She cries when he leaves. She's only ten years old, and she's lost her parents in the war, but his chest is folding in on itself like he's going supernova and he can't stay any longer. She makes the sign for _I love you,_ and Tony makes it back. He thinks he might mess up on one of the fingers.

It's District Nine, after that, then Ten, then One, where he finds all the archives buried under the city. He puts some of the books in his jacket. He's thankful for the jacket, then, because he doesn't have any room in his bag.

He still wears his scarf, even though starting a new life doesn't usually bring totems along with it.

Finally, he goes to Eleven. They don't need much help in the medical units, not with how many people are in the District, so he just drops off the supplies and wonders. He's reading one of the archives under a tree when a kid comes up to him and asks where he learned that.

And somehow he starts this little thing of teaching impoverished District Eleven kids how to read.

He always told Lea he was going to teach her how to read. He always told Jamie he would teach them how to cook.

It's been five months since he's seen Jamie, since he's seen anyone he used to know, and he wonders in some vague and abstract way if they're proud of him.

He likes District Eleven, but he finds one sixteen year old who reads better than the others, gives them a book of guidance that he writes himself, and then gets on the train again. To District Thirteen. To wherever needs him.

It's a little bittersweet, if he thinks about it for too long, that he spent his teenage years trying to escape the weight of the sky, and then as soon as someone let him out he climbed right back under by choice.

It's a little bittersweet, but a good kind. He teaches a girl on the train a District Eleven song about going home, and he thinks that it's nice that he gets to spend his life like this.

It's a little bittersweet, but Tony's whole life has been plain bitter. This settles on his tongue a lot nicer.

He calls Jamie, and he starts wearing overalls again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably gonna add more to this the chapter cap is a lie


End file.
